


Our Winter

by roxymissrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:56:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a random winter afternoon in their lives, slightly shmoopish, slightly angsty, with a dash of porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [locknkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/locknkey/gifts).



_original post date:2-9-2011_

Snow dotted the window pane, clumped up on the tiny holes in the screen that covered the upper half of the window. The thick aluminum frame surrounding it shook with the strength of the wind ripping through the alleyway, cold whistled in through the gaps.

The narrow room was white and gray, the light that filled it wavered like the world was underwater. The snow-muffled quiet fed his worst fear--that he was alone, no Dad, no Sam, locked in with only himself as company. He sat curled over his knees on the thin, nubby carpet and waited for that fear to overwhelm him.

Behind him the door opened, horror movie slow, a long throaty squeal of reluctant hinges…if his luck followed course, it meant a monster was behind him.

"Dean?" Sam's voice. The joy at hearing it so intense it was painful; the lift of his heart edged onto agony and brought him close to collapse. _Dean._ Sam spoke his name like he was singing. Dean couldn't remember the last time Sam sounded so happy to say his name. Warm, thin arms wrap around his neck and chase the chill from the entire room.

"Come out and help me make dinner."

Dean pulled Sam around to face him, smiled at him, pushed shaggy hair off his forehead, the way he did a million times a day. Sam stared into his eyes with an anxious look, a nervous, bold, bratty, typical _Sammy_ look and Dean laughed, pulled Sam all the way down so he straddled Dean like a rocking horse.

"Dean! Stop!" But he was full of laughter, teeth so white and smile so sweet, lips wide and pink, shiny with spit he licked onto them—just--Dean palmed the back of his head, felt thick silky strands shift and tangle in his fingers and kissed Sam. Sam leaned into it, making happy little greedy noises.

"Can't stop, can't let you go. You're mine, no matter what. I'll keep you here. Make you stay."

Sam slid off his lap and the world dropped away, fast and deep, like he'd stepped off the edge of a cliff. "You can't…" he heard the hurt; it followed him right out into the waking world, the sound of Sam's voice too loud in the silence of the narrow little room.

"Dean? You up?"

He blinked, and the rasp of his eyelashes against the pillow confused him. He drew his head up, blindly turning towards the sound of Sam's voice. Sam's head was poked around the frame of the doorway, and Dean grinned, the thought going somewhat muzzily through his head that it was like his own private puppet show. Sam asked again if he was finally awake, his voice on the edge of pissy and neutral, a clear signal Sam was worried—big girl.

"Yeah…why?"

"Thought I heard you callin' me".

"Oh." Dean blinked gummy lashes, smacked dry lips. "Yeah…no, I was. Nightmare…I think. Dreamt it was snowing."

"Yeah? Since when is snow scary?"

Dean threw out the first thing that came to mind. "It was zombie snow," he said, and Sam snorted.

"Oooh, 'course, makes so much sense. Snow that had a craving for brains?"

Dean grinned. "Yup."

"So, the nightmare part came when the snow got pissed off you had nothing to feed it?"

"Fuck you, Samster.

"Dude, that wasn't even funny when I was twelve and actually had hamster cheeks." But Sam was smiling so Dean counted it a win.

"Samster."

"Spleeeeen." Sam looked victorious so Dean wasn't about to tell him it'd never been much of a come back and just acted monstrously affronted instead.

Sam was already down the hallway, sock feet shushing over the crappy carpeting stapled to every floor in the whole house, before Dean managed to pull himself all the way back to waking. He snagged a pair of sweats out of the pile of clean clothes on Sam's bed, not stopping to check whose they were. He trudged out into the hallway before they started to slip around his hips. Probably Dad's, then. He shrugged. He'd never been choosy about what to wear, never had the time.

Sam was standing at the counter when Dean joined him in the kitchen, the light coming through the window making him a black silhouette of too-thin frame and wild hair that Dean would recognize anywhere. He could be blind, and still he'd know his brother, by touch, by smell. The thought propelled him forward--he sank his nose into the spot on the back of Sam's neck where the curls crimped up from sleep and sweat and left a small bare spot on his nape, concentrated scent of Sam right there. Dean leaned in and scented him, rubbed his nose gently there and when Sam's shoulders slumped and he let out a soft exhale, Dean touched that spot with the tip of his tongue—salt, smooth, clean. His Sam.

"Dean. Stop."

Dean pulled back, enough that no part of them touched but the heat settled between them and warmed his skin. "Sorry. Forgot."

Sam nodded, still turned away from Dean. "You want an egg or toast?"

"Toast, I'll make it myself." Dean moved away, yanked the toaster out from under the sink, and the bread from the plastic box over the cupboard. He upended the toaster over the sink and banged it hard a couple of times and Sam's face twisted. Nothing fell out except crumbs, though Sam jumped when a burnt chunk of toast dropped into the sink.

"All clean," Dean said and ruffled Sam's bed wild hair, sighed when Sam sighed. "I know. But it won't be much longer before Dad's back and we're out of here." Not that either of them had any expectation that the next place was going to be better, still, there was always a chance….

"Yeah." Instead of the relief Dean had hoped for, Sam just looked tired. Dean hated it—he'd rather Sam look pissed than resigned. He'd rather Sam scream and shout than make that little sound of utter defeat. He shoved him, hard, and Sam whirled around.

"Stop. What's wrong with you?" His eyes darted to Dean's chest and Dean's hand rose instinctively before dropping.

"I'll make French toast if you want."

"What? Really? Why?" and Sam's eyes went flat with suspicion. "What did you do?"

"Shit, nothing, I'm just trying to be nice."

"Right. Nice." Sam's eyes lowered to the edge of the bandage wrapping Dean's chest, and to the line of butterflies holding the edges of the shallow grooves on his upper chest and shoulder closed, along with a whisker or two of black thread. He shook his head. "Nice. Did you call Dad? He won't let you hunt, you know. Or…did you sneak out last night?"

"Dude. I didn't fucking call Dad, and I sure as hell didn't slip out last night—or any night since." Dean tossed hair out of his eyes and scowled. "Since--you know."

"Yeah." Sam carefully, tentatively, laid his hand across the bandages. He took a deep breath and said, "When I said stop I meant…I don't want you hurting. More, I mean. And, it's like I always want to be touching you and touching you makes me want more…I just want you."

"God…" Dean shoved the sweat pants down and kicked them to the side. He took Sam's hands and backed up until his calves hit one of the kitchen chairs and he sat, pulled Sam down on top of him and a flash of the dream surfaced, Sam rocking on his lap. "I swear it's okay, we'll stop if it gets to be too much, promise…."

Dean pressed kisses all along his jaw, loved the feel of Sam's long colt legs draping over his, downy warm insides of Sam's thighs moving against his with the way his muscles bunched and tightened. Dean slid his hands under Sam, lifted him closer, pressed him chest to chest, dick to dick against him. Dean shuddered at the new feeling of warmth, moaned as Sam ground his erection into him, both of them so hard it almost hurt—he managed to keep the gasp inside when Sam's chest put pressure against the stitches on Dean's.

"I hate this, you getting hurt, hate it so much, hate always being afraid…" Sam's mouth dropped to his, so soft and sweet, the sweetness of coffee with cream and sugar lingering in the warm wet places that Dean licked at, sucked from his tongue and rubbed from the roof of his mouth. Sam laughed quietly, still mouth to mouth, when Dean walked fingers up his ribs, danced fingertips into his armpits and ended cupping the arch of Sam's shoulders. He groaned and coaxed Dean's tongue into his mouth with his own.

They moved against one another, slow and careful. It was new, to do it this way, without the edge of desperation, without clawing and biting and shoving hard and frantic against one another. This care was new and Dean…he liked it very much, and at the same time wondered what brought it on—Sam wasn't usually so careful, or so thorough. "C'mon, Sam, move--you won't hurt me."

He shook his head. "Not that. I just…I wish we could always have it like this."

That surprised Dean, and something other than lust heated him. Still…"Now you do, but some day you'll want something else, someone else."

"That's stupid. I won't ever need anyone else."

Dean closed his eyes, brought their cheeks together. "Yes you will," his mouth said, but his heart said _fuck yes,_ and _thank you_ and _you promise, promise me never—_

"I don't think so, anyway," Sam murmured but Dean didn't hear that, not really. He was too stuck on forever and always and planning how to make it work.

Sam pushed him back, gave room for already huge hands to slide between them. "Don’t jump around, you'll bust a stitch…just, let me do this."

Dean watched Sam's hand wrap around his dick. "Sam. Shit." Every time Sam did that, it felt wild, crazy--amazing. Dean's heart slammed around his ribs, his breath held—stopped. Sam too--stopped and started, hand loose and then too tight and then erratic little jerks along Dean's length…Sam glanced at him, small smile broken by the tip of his tongue, narrowed eyes glittering.

"You fucking tease, you little—"

Sam laughed, done torturing, he picked up the pace. Sweet and right, fast, the way Dean liked it, and he told Sam so, rough words tumbling out of his mouth. Dean fumbled Sam's t-shirt out of the way, slid his hand into Sam's boxers and touched, rolled his palm over Sam's dick, smearing precome around on his flat, soft, baby-smooth belly. Sam jerked, curled into Dean with a small gasp, hair brushing Dean's mouth, cheek.

"Think you're funny don’t you, Sammy. This funny, make you laugh?" He rubbed his thumb over the tight, silky head of Sam's dick, pressed it into the steadily wetter slit, pressed until slick coated the crown, and the pad of his thumb…

"No, no, it's not funny—" Sam's voice spiraled up, higher, louder, and Dean shoved his thumb into his mouth, sucked the taste away. Pressed his palm against his mouth and licked, pulled his hand away nearly dripping wet. "Come on, fuck my hand," he said, tightening his grip around Sam, watching his face, feeling his heart race. "Fuck…you're such a mess, Sam--look at you. Face all red, sweating, dick leaking all over…"

Sam groaned, froze on Dean's lap—his body went tight and he arched back so quick, so hard, Dean almost lost him. He locked his arm behind Sam's back, held on and let Sam fall apart, come striping Dean's chest, his own, making a mess of both their hands….Sam blinked like he was confused, then gave Dean a slow dimpled smile as he came back. Dean sucked in a shuddery breath, caught by white snow at the window, grey light in the room and Sam's heavy breath against his ear.

Before he could stop him, Sam slid down Dean's legs, ending with a thump on his knees, between Dean's. "Let me take care of you," he said, and opened his mouth over the end of Dean's dick. Dean tensed and groaned, one hand splayed out over the bandage wrapping his chest, the other on Sam's head, following the gentle bobbing movement, riding it as he sped up. Dean tried not to wiggle on the chair, tried not to strain sore ribs and healing cuts but his hips weren't hearing it. Sam was good at this, and it didn’t take long. Dean came with a groan and a promise moaned into the air.

"You okay?" Sam wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, the other perched protectively over Dean's hand on his chest. He licked the corners of his mouth, eyes on the bandages.

"Yeah…think you blew my brains out. Tired again."

"Eat first, nap later. No PT today."

"Hell no. Fact, I got a better idea." He snagged a slice of bread and threw the bag in the fridge. "Come on," and dragged Sam back down the hall, cramming the slice in his mouth and ignoring Sam's little outbursts of disgust.

 

They wrapped around each other in Sam's bed, with pillows stolen from Dean's. Sam pushed and shoved until Dean's head was under Sam's chin, his arms loose around him and an ankle hooked around Dean's calf. What little light that came through the cloudy window made the world feel like it was underwater. The thick quiet in the narrow room settled over them, broken only by their breath, the slow squeak of the bed frame shifting.

"I think we'll always be together. Even when this stuff is over, we'll be together, right Dean?"

"Through hell and high water, Sammy." He didn't want to say that it would never be over. Nineteen and he knew that it would always be this way. Never really thought it could be anything else. Someday soon, Sam would come around; he'd get it, and be okay with it, once he realized that this way, doing this thing, they really would be together always.

2-9-2011


End file.
